


Et In Arcadia Ego

by Amatara



Category: Lost
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Post-Canon, Resolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-07
Updated: 2010-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-13 02:31:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amatara/pseuds/Amatara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have some things that I still need to work out. I think I'll stay here a while." On Benjamin Linus and letting go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Et In Arcadia Ego

 

He isn’t sure, in the end, why he chooses to stay. Or, no, that’s not quite true, isn’t it? He does know the reason – he’s never done anything without one in his life and, let’s be honest, death would be a terrible time to start – but not why it would be his reason in the first place.

It feels strange, a lapse like that. As strange as anything feels in this place where dead men walk, wrapped in skins of their own making. Like his own skin, not a day after meeting Desmond Hume’s fists, looking as unbroken as it ever did.

No, wrong again: as it never did.

If that’s meant to be symbolic, he doesn’t buy it.

There’s a click when Hugo shuts the church door behind him, and then Ben is sitting alone in the half-darkness, staring down at the hands folded in his lap. His nails are clean, pink, neatly filed down to the fingertips. For a second, the thought that his subconscious considered clean fingernails, of all things, essential enough for inclusion in his afterlife, is almost too comical. Except when he wants to start laughing, it doesn’t come out as laughter at all.  

He pulls his jacket about him compulsively, stops himself with an indrawn breath. What does it matter, anyway? What do jackets matter when it comes to letting go... or not?

So he feels cut off. What else is new? He can hardly remember a time that he didn’t. Not even with Hugo, though that was hardly Hugo’s fault. But it never made a difference before, or at least he never let it, so why would it begin to make a difference now? He’d say death must have softened instead of hardened him, but that's too lousy a joke even for this occasion.

What if, he thinks, rubbing his fingers because he can’t help it, because he’s freezing and even though he no longer _has_ fingers to rub, not in a non-metaphysical sense anyway, the reflex is still there... What if he’s taking the easy way out? Easier to stay than to go with them, which would imply admitting that he wants to. There are maybe three people in that church he could admit that to. Four, if Ilana’s there, which he doubts. And even those he could tell – like, say, Juliet – might not even want to hear.  

He isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting there when it sinks in. The light in the church has died down to a glimmer, and then he doesn’t know how he can be so certain they’re gone, only that he is. They’ve left, all of them, and whatever he thought he was waiting for, or was expecting to feel when they did, he didn’t feel a thing.

It’s only when he picks himself up and walks away, past the wheelchair sprawled uselessly on the pavement, that he realizes there’ll be nothing easy about this. Nothing at all.

He drives to class the next morning, same as always. Not because he wants to, just because he doesn’t know where else to go. The teacher’s lounge is out of coffee, and the last thing he wants is to brew a fresh pot, but he ends up doing it anyway. They bought the cheap kind again, the kind he’s always thought smells slightly of burnt rubber or some obscure chemical, but it’s hot and blessedly tasteless going down. By the time he’s done and is rinsing out his cup, his hands are actually steady.

Somehow, knowing the truth makes it all worse, not better. Alex’s face is a bright blur at the back of the classroom, lighting up whenever he asks a question and, inevitably, she gets the answer right. It takes him three days to convince himself she _is_ Alex, the real one, not some construct of his guilt-ridden mind. Or at least no more than he is a construct of hers. He doesn’t know what it would mean if he is, if it would mean anything, and he feels faint even thinking about it, so he tries not to.

Later that week, he’s picking up his briefcase from the locker room when, in an impulse, he finds himself looking for John’s. The label just says “Locke”, no first name, no title, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to peel it off and slide it into his pocket as if it belongs there. No trace of the key, of course, but he’s not even surprised when the door opens without one. Whatever secrets John Locke used to have, Ben supposes they’re no longer secrets now.

There’s not much inside except for a handful of pens, an empty notebook and two pictures. One of a woman, smiling, the other of an older man. Neither of whom Ben knows, and he puts them back after a long moment. He shuts the door and, without warning, has to breathe around a sense of loss that hits harder than Desmond’s punches. 

“Dr. Linus?” a voice says from the doorway, and of course that has to be Alex, showing up with that unearthly timing he's come to expect from this place. “Dr. Linus, are you all right?” It’s all he can do to make himself turn and smile like he always does, rather than turn and run like he wants to. She still doesn’t know, and though he can't get through an hour without wondering what will bring it back for her, he’s terrified of what will happen when it does.  

Some nights, when he can’t sleep, he thinks of Hugo. For all the time they spent together, parts of it are already slipping away. Parts like Hugo’s voice, the way it had of taking the edge off his anger, his self-loathing, bit by tiny bit. Then, inevitably, he thinks of his father. How, returning from the church that night, he was fully prepared to go right back to hating him, only to realize he couldn’t. He wonders how much of that is Hugo’s doing too.

It happens one night as he walks home after history club. He didn’t see Alex leave, so he’s surprised to spot her just outside the school gates. Even more to see she isn’t alone. There’s a boy with her, a tall, gangly boy who looks vaguely familiar in a way Ben can't put his finger on. It’s none of his business, really, none at all, but that doesn’t stop him from moving in closer. Another few steps, and he’s just on the other side of the fence. Close enough to hear them talk, and laugh, and see –

How the boy is kissing her, or trying to. Alex is making a noise that’s either a giggle or a yelp, starting to kiss him back, only to pull away again and mutter, “Karl, not here, please...”

And then Ben is storming out onto the street, and before he knows what's gotten into him he has the boy’s parka in both of his fists and is hissing, “You leave her alone, you hear me? You keep your hands off my –”

_“Dad?”_

Ben stares.

The first word that comes to him is _white,_ because she is, white and wide-eyed and small, looking for all the world like she’s going to pass out, or break into a run.  

Then she says “Dad?” again, and he thinks _he_ just might.

The boy – Karl, God, Karl – squirms in his grip, and Ben lets go, only to find he has no idea what it is he needs to do. Alex is watching him, hands plucking at her sweater, looking shocked or disgusted or terrified, he can’t tell.

“Alex,” he says, or tries to. “Alex, I’m so sorry.” He takes a step towards her, then, when that doesn’t send the sky crashing down, blurts, “I was wrong, you know. I was trying to protect you. All I ever wanted was to keep you safe, and I couldn’t even –”

“I know,” she whispers, and he stares again.

“Well, that’s not going to buy you anything, now, is it?” he gets out. “Honestly, Alex, you can’t tell me that’s even close to good enough.”

“It's... close,” she says, shakily. And then he’s not quite sure if he’s in her arms or she in his, but when he lets go, her face is wet, too, and oddly enough that doesn’t even feel wrong.  

“I can’t come with you, Dad.” Softly, like it’s the most obvious thing that he’d ask. “Karl, my mom… They still need to –”

He glances at the boy, tight-lipped and pale and clearly having no clue what the hell’s going on. “I understand,” he says. “Alex...” He’s having some trouble seeing. Or maybe it’s just that he feels so much lighter suddenly, because if this is what breathing was like in life, he can’t imagine he was ever able to stop.

“It’s all right,” she says, and for a moment he could swear she’s smiling. “You go on, Dad. We’ll see you around.”

And there’s no bright light to follow, nothing grand or spectacular or even remotely symbolic when he, finally, lets it take him away.

But the look on her face is all the light he needs.  

 


End file.
